


The Debt

by cheshireArcher



Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Hal's backstory, Richard's "mysterious" death, attempts to remain faithful to Shakespeare while maintaining some level of historical accuracy, dysfunctional Plantagenets in general, dysfunctional father/son relationships, feelings of betrayal, implied Richard/Aumerle if you squint, late 1399-early 1400, legends of dubious historical authenticity, plots to depose the king (what else is new), referenced Hotspur/Kate, references to Edward III, way too long historical notes at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireArcher/pseuds/cheshireArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was Prince Hal the unthrifity, foolish Prince of Wales, Harry of Monmouth was a son who felt betrayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dignity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



> Written for Speakmefair for the 2016 Histories Ficathon. What was it that made Hal snap and end up in Eastcheap? 
> 
> Historical notes at the end of the final chapter.

It was February when Richard died.

He died either cold and alone, starved, or he died in burning pain, in the presence of the men sent to murder him and once again feed the hungry ground with blood. The new king, who had taken the throne before the old king had died, was either responsible for this or he wasn’t.

Henry, fourth of that name, took the crown from his cousin and ascended the throne, which made his eldest son Henry the Prince of Wales. The younger Henry- called Harry by his father- was shaken by this, especially since he had been close to the former king, his cousin, who was now detested by everyone. 

And little Isabelle… so young to see this happen. Harry had played with her and promised he'd always be her friend but now his father had essentially condemned her husband to death. 

It was October when Henry IV took the throne.

Richard still lived.

“Harry, you're now the prince,” the King said. The prince was already beginning to think of him not as his father but as some cold, foreign noble that he knew only in passing. This couldn't be his father. 

The King- not his father- said this before meeting the nobles. Many of them had so easily switched sides to back the house of Lancaster as soon as Bolingbroke returned to England. He had decided for himself that his banishment, imposed by Richard, was over and with the help of these allies had taken the crown. “You’re the heir to the throne of England and the legacy of Edward.” 

Of course he would mention his great-grandfather, the illustrious Edward III, that paragon of chivalry who began the war with France that Richard had tried to end. War was good business and the nobles had wanted it to continue because it kept the crowns flowing in. 

It was these same nobles that Harry looked out on now, the same nobles who so quickly turned against Richard and sided with Bolingbroke. The Percys of Northumberland- the Earl and his son, Sir Henry Percy. Lord Ross. Lord Willoughby. Exton. Fitzwater. They had all broken the vows they’d made to Richard when Henry returned to England.

Westminster had been rebuilt by Richard, a lover of art and spectacle. In niches along the walls there stood statues of past kings, all watching and judging Harry. _England will be yours someday. You must prove you are worthy of it._

England. The miserable, rainy island that his adult family was bickering over like children over a toy. It was what his grandfather, the time-honored John of of Gaunt, declared “this earth, this realm, this England.” He said it as he was dying, much like the kingdom. Perhaps the kingdom was already dead, its ideals run into the ground by Richard’s misrule and the misleading influences of his favorite cronies.

Edward III had made up for the dissolute reign of his father and predecessor Edward II. Henry IV had to make up for his predecessor, Richard.

This and other thoughts rattled about in the young Harry’s skull. The Prince of Wales, unlike the nobles around him, did not want the title or the responsibility. He was still, in his mind, just the son of a duke and the transition to prince had been so sudden he barely could tell the difference until the day he faced the court as the Prince of Wales- fitting, as he was born at Monmouth.

“Harry, you’re no longer the son of a Duke- you’re the Prince and I expect you to act as such.” Those words continued to run through Harry’s head and he turned them over and over, until he saw through his father’s intentions. “You must uphold the dignity of your office.”

Dignity. He spoke to Harry of dignity and place. 

“Everyone will look to you, Harry,” the King had continued, staring ahead at the hall soon to be filled with his nobles. Now Harry looked out on this same hall, now with the added expectations. He knew exactly what his father had been saying- you must uphold the office of prince to lend credence to my claim as King. His father had little claim to the throne- hadn’t Richard made some child from the Mortimer family his heir?- and he needed desperately the approval of the ever-fickle, ever-suspicious of authority nobility. 

After all, it had only been a few months since he himself had overthrown a king.

This is what led Harry to boil over. He knew his place, yes, but it was not one he had agreed to.

So as soon as he could escape damned ceremony, Harry pushed his way out of the hall. He ran directly into Harry Percy, called the Hotspur equally for his equestrian skill and for his legendarily bad temper. He was short but strong, a consummate warrior. Like his father, the Earl of Northumberland, Percy had joined Bolingbroke’s rebellion. 

“Where are you going?” Percy asked, having taken hold of Harry’s shoulder with a grip like a vise.

“None of your business, Percy,” Harry snapped, getting a momentary rush from the knowledge that as Prince of Wales he far outranked this scrappy Hotspur of the North, a man who probably went to his wife with the blood of his dead enemies still under his nails, a man who switched sides as soon as his slimy father told him to, and if he were to insult this great warrior’s pride he was immune- or if he wasn’t, Percy would suffer.

Harry wasn’t sure why he was thinking so much about Percy, but he later would realize it was it was because Percy embodied everything he hated.

Now he broke free of Percy’s grip, glaring at him. “I’m going out,” he said. 

“You tell your father what you’re doing?” Percy asked. “He’s going to ask where you are.”

“He’s not in complete control of me,” Harry spat. He turned, escaping the Northumbrian attack dog and making for his quarters


	2. Escape

Harry reached his apartments in a storm of anger and bitterness. He felt betrayed- by his father, by the whole world. All these expectations to be the rightful heir when the crown was ill-gotten, his father’s shaky attempt to hold onto his claim to the throne, and the bitter memory that his cousin, the one who he had liked a great deal, had been betrayed and left to die like… like some common man who had offended the King.

These thoughts drove him mad.

Harry grabbed his favorite jacket- the red leather one- and pulled it on before finding his purse and some money. He was leaving and he didn’t plan on coming back until his mind was clear. He wanted to get lost, go where no one knew his name and nothing was expected of him. He made it as far as the cold, echoing hall when he ran into yet another human obstacle- this one someone he loved dearly.

“Are you going somewhere, Harry?” Humphrey asked. He was the youngest of Harry's three brothers. Harry had been Humphrey’s favorite, always following big brother around and wanting to emulate him. Harry had loved Humphrey too, but now he couldn’t think of liking his family.

“I’m going out,” Harry replied, wanting to escape. The sooner he got out of this dank and musty castle the better. The new royal household would be at Westminster only as long as they were in London for the coronation ceremonies and first meetings of the new government.

“You said we’d practice archery today.” Humphrey’s innocent eyes showed that he was truly hurt by his big brother’s apparent attempt to avoid him. 

“Can’t,” Harry said, brushing past his brother. “I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t look back as he left the hallway.

\-----

Harry’s plan had been to just escape the confines of rank and ceremony, after that he hadn’t thought of a destination. He wandered through the crowded, smelly streets of London, planning just to get lost. That was not difficult, as the city was made of crooked streets, fire-hazard buildings jammed together with few alleys, and all the claustrophobia of a world that his class forgot existed. These were the slums, no place for a prince. 

He tried to make himself as anonymous as possible. The stench of fifty tons of human and animal waste met his nose and he began to miss the cleanliness of Westminster. People with fascinating diseases passed him by without paying him any heed. Mud and other, more disgusting substances Henry didn't want to think about were spattered on him by a passing cart. He grimaced but realized it probably made him look more at home. No use looking like a noble, especially in a place like this.

A pub sign caught his eye as it swung in the putrid air- The Boar's Head. He was now in a better part of London, Eastcheap. Still, it was no place for the prince Harry did not want to be. 

Harry ducked into the tavern and was swallowed up by the noise inside. It was just as crowded as the street outside, but it was clean and obviously the host cared about it. The thought crossed his mind that at some point he may have heard of this tavern. He took a seat at a table and let the noise and anonymity swallow him. He regressed into his thoughts until he was jerked back into reality by a drawer, a big-eyed boy with a stained apron.

“What can I get you?” 

“An ale,” Harry replied. The drawer left and Henry scanned the tavern. To the sides he could see other rooms for guests, some with tables occupied. The people here weren’t all the dirty lower class he had expected, although there were many from that station. Some looked poor, like they were laborers, others looked better off. There were women in clothes that advertised their trade. He saw a group a few tables away that surrounded a fat, unkempt man who nevertheless held them in sway. It gave Harry the impression that this was a court, much like that of his father’s, and the fat man must be the one who presided over it.

Harry didn’t notice the young man seated at the fat man’s table that had been watching him since he had sat down. 

The drawer returned soon with a tray loaded with drinks and he set a cup in front of Harry, then hurried away, calling “anon!” to a person demanding another drink. Harry settled down to his ale, which was sweet. Not as nice as what he was used to but, it wasn’t incredibly bad either. He took several swallows and wondered what he was doing here- he would have to get back to Westminster at some point.

He hadn’t completely snapped, he said to himself, he was just here to sort out his thoughts away from the stuffy castle. He would then return home with a clearer idea of who he was- although consciously he still didn’t want to be prince.

This was probably far from what his father wanted him to do as a proper prince.

“Hey, new guy,” a voice sounded from above.

Harry looked up from the murky depths of his ale to see a young man about his age, tall and lanky.

“What?” Harry replied, surprised it had taken this long for someone to notice him.

“Yeah, you’re new,” the youth replied. “Welcome to the Boar’s Head. Name’s Ned.” Without being invited, he sat down across from Harry. “What’s your name?”

“Harry,” he replied. 

“So Harry, what brings you to Eastcheap?” Ned asked, taking a swig of the drink he was carrying.

“Just out on the town.”

“You’re not from London,” Ned observed. He was asking far more questions than Harry wanted to answer. 

“I’m from Wales,” Harry answered, truthfully. He took another drink and pulled a face, still not sure if he liked this ale all that much. 

“Not to your taste, huh?” Ned asked, gesturing to the drink in Harry’s hand. 

“Not what I’m used too,” Harry replied. He also wasn’t sure why he was still talking to Ned. He seemed nice enough but Harry wasn’t here to make new friends.

“They have better,” Ned said. Before Harry could say anything, Ned raised his hand and hailed the drawer that had previously waited on Henry. “Francis, two cups of sack.”

“Anon anon, sir!” Francis called, running to fetch the drinks.

“So what’s your story?” Ned asked, once Francis was gone.

“Do I have to have a story?” Harry asked. 

“Everyone who comes here does,” Ned replied, sounding serious. “We all end up here somehow. Either we got something to escape or we’re running ‘cause we don’t know any other life.”

“Which one are you?” Harry asked.

Ned just laughed. 

Consternated, Harry replied. “I’m just passing through,” which wasn’t a total lie. He hadn’t had any destination when he’d left Westminster, and he still didn’t.

Francis returned with the drinks. Harry and Ned ignored their ales for the wine, which was sweet already, and sweetened even more with beet sugar. It did indeed taste better than the ale, and much more like the wines Harry was used to as the son of a duke.

Ned turned out to be a charming companion. From their vantage point at the table, he gave Harry a tour of the tavern.

“You’ve already met Francis, he’s been here for ages. There are some other drawers. Over there’s Mistress Quickly, she’s the hostess. She runs the place,” Ned’s voice held a note of affection for the resilient old woman who was arguing with a customer. “The lump she’s having a row with is Falstaff,” Ned continued. “Oh, sorry, _Sir John_ Falstaff.” It was the man that Harry had seen holding court earlier. 

“Sir? He's a knight?” Harry asked, surprised. The knights he knew were like the Hotspur- fit, warlike and disciplined. Falstaff appeared to be the opposite. 

“He's never been much of a knight,” Ned replied. Harry had the feeling that Ned knew Falstaff far better than he was letting on. Before the night was over, he met Falstaff, who had demanded Ned introduce him. 

“Hal, eh? Welcome, boy.” 

How he had gotten “Hal” out of Harry, he never knew. 

\-----

Harry and Ned left Eastcheap long after midnight, the reluctant prince having at least in part succeeded in his mission- get his father out of his head. Now it was foggy with drink and the contrast of court life and tavern life. Thank God he had Ned to lead him out- otherwise he would have ended up facedown in a ditch. Ned didn't look to be in much better shape, but at least he knew the streets. 

“I won't tell them who you are,” Ned said. It was enough to snap Harry back into reality for a minute.

“What?”

“Who you are, my liege.”

“I’m no one,” Harry insisted, not knowing who he was any more. “I told you, I'm Harry, I'm from Wales.”

Ned stopped walking and Harry plowed into him. Ned steadied him with a firm hand on the shoulder. “The Prince of Wales is named Harry,” he said with a smirk Harry could barely see in the dark, the streets lit only by lanterns. “He's also from Wales.”

“What are you saying, Ned?”

“I know exactly who you are, my prince,” Ned replied. “Doesn't take a genius to figure out you're the King’s son. Saw the coronation celebration myself.” 

“...Do you think anyone at the tavern knew?” Harry asked, his voice small. 

“If anyone did it would be Falstaff,” Ned replied. “And he would have pulled something on you, realizing you're rich and powerful. Better than mooching off Mistress Quickly.”

They were silent for a while, Harry not sure what to say since Ned knew the truth he'd been trying to escape. Fortunately, Ned was the one to speak.

“Secret’s safe with me.”


	3. Envy

Harry returned to Westminster, flashing the badge of his father- a white swan- at the guards, who barely recognized the shit-faced prince. He trudged upstairs hoping to reach his apartments without further accosting. He failed only five yards from his room, literally running into Thomas, the third son of Henry IV. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Nothing. Went for a walk,” Harry replied, brushing past him. 

“Got drunk too,” Thomas said, sounding annoyed at his elder brother’s indiscretions. Now, there was a perfect prince. Harry’s brothers John and Thomas had immediately taken to the office of princes, applying themselves to their responsibilities as Lancaster and Clarence.

“I’m going to bed, Thomas.” Harry stumbled past his brother and into his room. Once there, he slammed the door behind him and collapsed on the bed, not bothering to take off his boots. 

\-----

The next morning, Harry awoke with a banging headache. He regretted whatever it was he had done, the memories coming back as he tried to stand up- he’d spent the night in a tavern with a young man. Ned. His companion was named Ned, right? He had just been out for the night to escape his troubles and he had escaped- but returned.

“Harry, what were you doing out last night?” the King asked as he attended to the morning’s work in his closet, the princes in attendance.

Before Harry could answer, Humphrey spoke up, his young, reedy voice nervous. “He was out taking a walk to familiarize himself with the city. You’ve set an excellent example, Father, in winning the approval of the common man.”

Harry could have started sweating despite the castle’s perpetual chill.

The King peered at him from his end of the table, as if he weren’t sure he totally accepted Humphrey’s explanation, but he said nothing. Instead he returned to work and Harry could breathe easier than he had before. Humphrey was, in part, right and had risked so much to cover for his beloved brother. Thomas, however, didn’t care so much about Harry.

“He became very familiar with it,” Thomas said absently. “So much that it became his drinking partner.”

“Why you little-” Harry stood up abruptly, his chair scraping on the stone floor. Before he could say any more, the King was also standing. 

“That’s enough from both of you!” He roared. “I don’t have time to deal with this. Harry, you know far better than this and I expect you to keep up the good name of your office. Thomas, thank you for telling the truth.” He did not sound pleased with either son. Humphrey looked like he wanted to sink under the table. 

Harry stormed out of the King’s closet feeling even worse. 

\-----

Days passed since his first visit to the tavern and Hal’s frustration abated somewhat. He saw to his duties as Prince but still felt a scratching discomfort even as he did so. He went to the Boar’s Head every few nights to get away from the court. It was his one refuge from the life he’d been thrust into. This place was of his choosing, one where he was quickly learning the ways of the commoners and the cutpurses, but only as an escape for a bored, stressed-out young noble.

Tonight he could not escape. It was another night of meeting with nobles, the ones whose support the King still needed to be sure of.

“You will behave yourself,” the King said to Harry that night before the great hall filled with guests. “I’ll have none of this behavior you’ve shown in the past few weeks.” He sounded like he was scolding a naughty child.

“It’s only been a few times,” Harry replied, trying to defend himself. He hadn’t caroused that all that much. He’d seen men at court get far more smashed at official state dinners than he ever had been with Ned. 

“I keep telling you, Harry,” the King said, putting his hands on the Prince’s already broad shoulders, “you must act your station- which means dignity and propriety in all things. You are an example to your brothers and to all who look upon the house of Lancaster. This is not an easy undertaking.”

Lancaster. So his initial suspicions were confirmed. This was about the house of Lancaster and its right to be on the throne. His father’s admonishments weeks ago were being repeated and they still meant the same thing.

“Dignity, yes,” Harry said, facing the King. “The same dignity you had when you took the crown from Richard, after you and grandfather accused him of making the kingdom some kind of farce.”

“You will not speak to me in this manner, young man!” The King grabbed Harry’s ear and twisted it hard. “You will behave tonight. We will speak no more of this.” The Kind straightened his crown and stormed off, leaving Harry to his growing anger.

\-----

The hall held people he remembered, dukes and earls and knights, some still loyal to Richard but remaining in Henry’s good graces. There was John Holland, Duke of Exeter and half-brother of Richard. At another end of the hall, almost cowering in the corner, was the nervous Rutland- once Aumerle, who was so well beloved by Richard- afforded a place in the king’s heart that was far beyond that of a simple favorite. He was still loyal to Richard in heart but he certainly appeared to not want to offend Henry. Harry felt sorry for him, a man torn between family loyalties- especially since Henry and Richard were his cousins.

Switching loyalties was easier for others, like the Earl of Northumberland, a shrewd politician, and his even slimier brother the Earl of Worcester. They were here, although there had been concern that Richard had given Northumberland and his son far too much control of the east march. Northumberland’s son, the impetuous Harry Percy, had thrown his gauntlet down and joined the rebellion at least in part just because he liked action and his father knew how to use that

Hotspur, honest but every bit a ham, regaled all who listened with tales of the encounters with the Scots who constantly raided across the border. He was a man who thought only of battle, even fighting them in his head- his brain never stopped running and he could never sit still. His pretty wife, Kate, hung on his neck, beaming up at him. Every once and awhile he looked at her with the same tenderness he showed his favorite horse, but then he returned to discussing war, his arm around her waist. Harry wasn’t sure what the Lady Percy saw in her husband.

Harry was returning from a visit to the guardrobe when he overheard two men talking in the darkened corridor, one of whom was Sir Walter Blunt. Their footsteps neared and he ducked behind a tapestry of a scene from the tale of Gawain and the Green Knight when he recognized the second voice- the King.

“Harry Percy has yet again proved himself,” Blunt said.

“Yes, he’s quite the hero. Northumberland should be proud to have such a son,” the King said. More of the same Harry had heard all night, how great Percy was, how perfect a soldier he was. “He’s no courtier but he has his place and gets the job done.” The King heaved a weary sigh, sounding much older than he was. “Sometimes I feel that I’ve been left with the wrong Harry,” he said. Harry’s breath hitched as he listened from his hiding place. “Mine has become such a troublemaker. Everyone knows he spends half his time in taverns and with the most villainous of company. If only my Harry were like Northumberland’s. Or, if only Percy could be my son and Northumberland have mine.”

Harry felt the blow land. 

So it was true. 

His father loved the other Harry more. 

The name made him sick. Harry. Harry Percy, the pugnacious and successful child of the Northern wilderness, possessing skill and a lovely wife, and most of all victories that Prince Harry had never even had a chance at. When he heard the footsteps fade away from him he slipped out from behind the scene of King Arthur’s court that had been commissioned by Richard. He couldn’t stand the name Harry. It was the name of the rival for his father’s affection and approval- even if the brute didn’t realize it- the name of his greatest enemy. And most of all, it had once been the name of the King, long before the ill-gotten crown was placed upon his head.

He didn’t pay attention to the last words he heard from the King. 

“I fear he will become another Richard.”

The Prince made for the stairs to the apartments and directly to his rooms. Once there, he grabbed his favorite red jacket and whatever else he might need- his purse, his knife- but leaving the chained swan badge on his bed. He didn’t need it where he was going.

It was November when the Prince rechristened himself Hal.


	4. Proof

Prince Hal left Westminster after having made his decision- he was no longer the Prince of Wales, for the time being. He was not a Harry like the Hotspur, or even worse, his father, and he would be as different from them as he could. He didn’t say goodbye to even Humphrey, and this time he escaped the court unnoticed. He returned to the tavern in Eastcheap, the Boar’s Head, where he rented a room and did what he wished. He would return to court when he was good and ready- but now he spent his time in his own kingdom.

There he truly became friends with Ned, who was far more interesting to be around than his brothers. Ned was a regular laborer who supplemented his income with thieving. He never asked Harry to join in, but the prince helped with planning heists and he was good at it, so good that he and Ned would each take half of the booty. Hal had earned it.

Falstaff, the fat knight, proved to be a fascinating character. He was a braggart and probably the kingdom's primary consumer of sack. He was also a thief, working with his old friend Bardolph, but was less clever than Ned- who often helped them. Falstaff's skill lay in escaping blame and responsibility, but especially in exaggeration. This was proved to Harry one night after a particularly messy robbery had resulted in Falstaff and his gang nearly getting caught. 

“Pray you escaped safely,” Harry said, already amused.

“We escaped by pure skill,” Falstaff said, taking a draught of sack. “Thanks to my guidance, I managed to get us out. The mayor’s men chased us all the way to the river.”

“Continue,” Ned said, glancing at Harry with the tiniest of grins.

“And there they surrounded us, five of the Lord Mayor Knollys’s finest men, and we fought our way out,” Falstaff continued. Bardolph looked at the audience, obviously not going along with the story. 

“I hope you didn’t kill any of them,” Harry said. 

“No, all seven escaped whimpering like the pups they were, back to their master!”

“Woah, wait. You said there were five!”

“There must have been some I hadn't counted,” Falstaff said. “We got away with the booty, some twenty thousand marks.” Harry smirked, knowing that the haul was far less.

The other thing Ned was good at was pranks- he loved playing practical jokes on people, especially Falstaff, who was an easy target. One night, they replaced a capon with a live rooster, another night they made him believe that the tavern was out of sack. Neither had pleased him, but he had laughed it off, claimed he knew exactly what they were doing and no harm was done.

Here at the Boar’s Head, Harry felt at home, even after the secret got out. News travels fast and Harry was soon Prince of Eastcheap, beloved by his people. Falstaff seemed to enjoy Hal’s company even more than knowing the boy’s true rank, and Hal found the old failed knight amusing. He was certainly better company than the King. In time, Falstaff oddly enough felt like a father figure to Hal, instructing him in the ways of petty thievery and vice. These strange characters became a sort of surrogate family to Hal, but he knew he was higher than them, something that he often used to his advantage- he found them amusing, even when it was very much at his friends’ expense. 

\-----

Meanwhile in the court, the King struggled with two family problems- what to do with his cousin, the former King Richard, who was currently holed up in Pontefract Castle in York; and what to deal with the wastrel his son had become. He was reminded of Richard, who emptied the coffers for art and wars and disregarded any sound advice, preferring to dally with his favorites, fools all- first Robert de Vere, then Mowbray- the man Henry himself had challenged for being complicit in the murder of Gloucester- and then those slimy caterpillars Bushey, Bagot, and Green. Richard had listened to the wrong people and served only himself and in return had been overthrown. The same very well could happen to Harry. 

And so the year of our Lord 1399 drew to a close and a new century began under King Henry, fourth of that name. It seemed a full century since he had last seen his son, the foolish, dissolute Prince of Wales, but in truth it had been three months. The King had received reports that he was frequenting taverns, primarily in Eastcheap, in the company of a handsome young thief and some old knight- what was his name? Falstaff? Oldcastle? No matter. Harry was falling into the life of a seedier Richard, far away from the gilded, soft world of the decadent former king but no less foolish.

The King lamented his lost son to the Hotspur, not knowing what else to do. Percy had been the one to see him most recently, having run into the ungrateful, unthrifty boy in the city center while on business for his father, old Northumberland.

“Ah told him about the upcoming tournament,” Percy said, his thick Northumbrian dialect out of place at Windsor.

“And?” the weary King asked.

“He said he'd take a token from the most common girl in the street,” Percy continued. “And that he'd unseat the best challenger.”

Of course he would, the King thought bitterly. Harry managed to think far better of himself than he deserved- skill and respect were earned and he had done nothing for either. And the commoners… the King had known the value of their support but the same time kept a dignified distance from the rabble. Who knew what sins Harry was committing at this very moment. 

Percy didn't understand, the King knew- of course Percy didn't understand anything that didn't concern him (not that he did then either). His children were still young and little trouble. And Percy himself… he would indeed have made a good prince. Northumberland was indeed fortunate to be blessed with such a son.

This envious sin twisted inside the King.

But as contemplated the ancient sins he and his son committed, something else- far more dangerous- burst into the throne room in the form of the nervous, feckless Rutland.

\-----

“What are you trying to prove?” Ned asked one night, his voice surprisingly clear against the noise of the tavern around them. Off to one side Falstaff was rambling to Bardolph about something. Francis was running between tables shouting he’d be there anon. Hal and his best friend had lain about all day, doing nothing- he knew there was some tournament coming up and he'd run into his father's beloved attack dog Percy that week and told him he'd be there. He didn't care all that much about performing on the lists, unlike the Hotspur, who took everything far too seriously, even sport.

“Nothing,” Hal replied, taking a drink from his cup of sack. He’d grown accustomed to sack and now prefered it over the the rich wines served at the feasts in the great halls, but his status brought a slight derision to his assimilation to this world. “I have nothing to prove.”

“‘Cause most prove themselves on the battlefield or the lists rather than downing a butt of madera,” Ned replied, his voice now distorted by his cup as he took a drink.

“I don’t need to,” Hal said. “And it wasn’t a butt, you know that.”

“You’re trying to prove you have nothing to prove,” Ned mused. “Quite a feat.”

Hal was chagrined at his friend’s philosophical turn. “I don’t have to prove anything, Ned. Not to the people, not to the King’s friends. Nothing.” Some cruel streak caused him to add “And not to you.” 

“Oh, right,” Ned said blankly. “You're already so impressive, you're right, you have nothing to prove. Your name proves everything and your family is the source of your glory.”

Hal regretted what he'd said- Ned was right. Hal was still the Prince of Wales, still a Plantagenet, and life had not abused him as it had this boy who'd become his dearest companion.

“I'm sorry, Ned,” Hal admitted. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“No offense taken,” Ned replied. “It must not be fun, the price of all that. You don't get to live your own life.”

Hal thought about Percy- whose manic energy was used by his father and uncle for their own advantage even as the Hotspur believed he was doing what was right- he had no idea that his life was not his own in the same way Hal's was not his own. 

Stop thinking about Percy.

“I don't have anything to prove,” Hal repeated. “I'm just like everyone else here.” That may not have been a good example. Falstaff was always bragging about his exploits but had little to show for it. Mistress Quickly worked hard to keep up her own perceived respectability of her establishment. “Everyone is so _disappointed_ in me that I have nothing to prove, so I don't. And definitely not to my father,” he said, true bitterness creeping into his voice.

Ned looked Hal in the eye, taking another drink. “Who said anything about your father?”


	5. I Serve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note and bibliography at the end.

January saw a plot to kill the king even as the wayward prince dallied in the tavern. A band of those loyal to Richard had not given up hope. Many of them had been rewarded by Richard after the not-so mysterious death of Gloucester but had been placed under attainder by Henry. The conspiracy was lead by Salisbury, and Kent, and le Despencer- whom Richard had created Gloucester; and Huntingdon, Richard’s half-brother. Among the lesser men were Norwich, Lumley, Blount, Brocas- and Rutland.

In December they met in the Abbey house of Westminster, counting Henry's appearance at a tournament on Twelfth Night at Windsor. There they would capture the King and kill him, restoring Richard to the throne. But Henry didn’t go to Windsor, and he lived. Rutland had rushed to the King, begging him for forgiveness, and he revealed the plan. Rutland lived, but it was Richard’s death warrant. 

It was February when Richard died.

\------

Harry Percy found Hal in the Boar’s Head soon after Richard’s death. The wayward prince was at his favorite table with a scruffy young companion, who was laughing at something that had been said. The common boy stopped laughing when Percy approached, his mirth replaced with silent horror. He quickly stood and left, obviously terrified of the soldier- he had never seen Percy before but he had an idea of what he was like from Hal’s mocking descriptions of him.

Without a word, Percy sat down across from Hal, who was perfectly sober- he’d been there more for Ned’s company than to drink. Percy also went against expectation. His usual manic energy had abated- but instead of calm, his face had a look of death about it.

“Ah suppose you’ve heard,” Percy said.

“He’s dead,” Hal said, looking into his drink.

“Yes. His body was brought to court today.”

“Does Rumor speak true?” Hal asked, still not looking up. 

“Ah wouldn’t know,” Percy replied. Tonight Hal almost saw him as Percy, not the Hotspur. Almost- this was still the man he hated, the man who had taken his place.

“Rumor has spread that Richard didn’t die of starvation,” Hal said, now looking Percy in the eyes. 

“Again, Ah wouldn’t know,” Percy said. “Ah _don’t_ know.”

Hal suspected that Percy _did_ know but he didn’t press it- the Hotspur could be stirred up easily if he didn’t guard his words. Whatever was troubling Percy and keeping him quiet was probably a terrible truth.

Hal signaled for Francis to take an order, sack for himself, and on Percy’s request, ale.

“Why’d you do it?” Hal asked quietly once Francis had departed.

“Do what?” Percy asked, fidgeting as he always did when a situation required him to remain still for longer than three seconds.

“I still don’t understand,” Hal said. “Why’d the lords of Northumberland turn against Richard? He gave you and your father the entire east march.” 

“Richard didn’t keep all his promises,” Percy said. Hal remembered that Richard had created Northumberland’s rival, Ralph Neville, Earl of something or other. That had to sting. Harry Percy the younger himself was too dumb to do anything on his own without being prompted- especially something as clever as overthrowing a king. 

Francis returned and the two Harrys were silent again, focusing on their drinks.

“You didn’t want him dead,” Hal said. It was halfway between a question and a statement.

“No," Percy replied. “Neither did your father.”

Hal was fairly certain the thick-headed Percy believed that, but he himself wasn’t so sure. He’d heard Rumor speak. Westminster’s official position was that Richard had starved, either from willful neglect on the part of his jailors at Pontefract or of his own hopeless volition. He no doubt would have heard of the failed Rising at Epiphany, his last chance at freedom and at that point he would have given up, turning his face to the wall and refusing sustenance.

Rumor had a far juicier story of course. The deposed king’s end had been hastened by knives- wielded, some versions said, by someone who had been his friend- Sir Piers Exton, maybe; or Sir William Bagot, his last surviving favorite; or even, it was whispered, the Duke of Rutland, Richard’s dear nervous companion. Some said it was on the orders of the King. He’d certainly been overheard wishing Richard were dead, and much like his predecessor the second Henry of England had wished to be rid of Thomas Becket, that wish being carried out by some overzealous murderer. Or he had directly ordered it be performed, without going through the messy channels of miscommunication.

But those were the words of Rumor, a being no more trustworthy than Falstaff.

“Now what?” Hal asked.

It was the question everyone had but no one wanted to ask.

“Ah’m going home,” Percy replied. Only now did Hal realize how hard the Hotspur of the North was working to keep his natural dialect under control. “Have the Scots to deal with. Miss my family.”

“Your wife’s a Plantagenet, isn’t she?” Hal asked, surprised he just remembered that fact.

“That she is. Her great-grandfather was Edward III.”

Edward III.

Hal was the same degree of relationship to the revered king. The one in whose footsteps he was to follow.

He guessed that Percy didn’t know his own nephew, the child Edmund Mortimer, had been chosen by Richard to be his heir. 

Percy downed the rest of his ale in one go and stood up. “Mass will be said for Richard tomorrow at St. Paul’s,” he said.

“So the King is affording Richard every dignity,” Hal said. He crossed his arms and rested them on the table. 

“Every dignity,” Percy echoed. “He was the King’s cousin”

“Son of Edward, Prince of Wales,” Hal mused. “The hero of Poitiers and Crécy.”

“And you know what the motto of the Prince of Wales is,” Percy said. Hal knew Percy meant he’d forgotten what it really meant, not just the words Edward had taken on after the death of John the Blind of Bohemia at Crécy.

“ _Ich dien._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have attempted to remain faithful to both history and Shakespeare with this story, which is of course impossible to do. However, I was able to fill out some of the details that Shakespeare either leaves out or glosses over. These include everything from ages and birth order to the details of the plot to usurp Henry IV and the circumstances around Richard II’s death.
> 
> On the subject of ages and birth order, I have kept Isabelle her historical age, nine at the time of the deposition of Richard. Hal was historically thirteen at the time, here I have aged him up as Shakespeare has. Hotspur was historically thirty-six, and actually older than Henry IV, although I never mention their ages in this story. Shakespeare got the birth order of Henry’s children wrong. Hal was the eldest but his second and third brothers were switched- Thomas was actually older than John. I’ve kept Shakespeare’s order here just because it’s more familiar and has little bearing on the plot. In a similar vein, I’ve kept Lady Percy’s name as it is in the play.
> 
> The plan to kill Henry IV was indeed lead by the men mentioned, although Rutland’s involvement is debated to this day. The plot was known as the Epiphany Rising, and it obviously failed miserably. There are some sources that indicate Henry was overheard to say something to the effect that he’d only want Richard to die if there was a plot to restore him to the throne.
> 
> The motto of the Prince of Wales, “Ich dien” is German for “I serve.” Legend has it that it was adopted by Edward, Prince of Wales after the death of John the Blind of Bohemia at Crécy, although this story first appeared thirty years later and has basically no evidence to back it up- nevertheless, the story existed at Hal’s time. However, Edward’s famous nickname, the Black Prince, did not- that was from Shakespeare’s time. 
> 
> I’ve researched everything to the best of my ability and I’m not an expert on this period (I hope to be someday) and if anything is incorrect, the fault is mine. Thank you to my excellent beta reader, Duchess_of_York for helping edit this story.
> 
>  
> 
> **Bibliography**
> 
> Kirby, J. L.. _Henry IV of England_. London: Constable, 1970.  
> 
> 
> Norwich, John Julius. _Shakespeare’s Kings: The Great Plays and the History of England in the Middle Ages: 1337-1485_. New York: Scribner, 2000. 
> 
> _Richard II_. Directed by Gregory Doran. 2013. Stratford-Upon-Avon, UK: Royal Shakespeare Company, 2014. DVD. 
> 
> Shakespeare, William. _Collins Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. Glasgow: Collins, 1994.


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